


My Brother's Keeper

by sinistrocular



Series: My Brother's Keeper [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Five years ago in Savoy, Gen, Pre-Series, spoilers for 1x04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinistrocular/pseuds/sinistrocular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The news came by way of a letter from Savoy, two days after the training exercise should have finished. Porthos knew, for he had been counting the hours since they should have heard Aramis’s bright voice again, that something was wrong, but he had sorely underestimated just how wrong.</p>
<p>(Spoilers for 1x04, which is the primary inspiration for this and its companion piece.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Brother's Keeper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaciart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaciart/gifts).



> Spoilers for 1x04 in here. Inspired by [Julie's gorgeous artwork](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/76393900885) of what may have happened after THAT THING in Savoy five years ago.

The news came by way of a letter from Savoy, two days after the training exercise should have finished. Porthos knew, for he had been counting the hours since they should have heard Aramis’s bright voice again, that something was wrong, but he had sorely underestimated just how wrong. Captain Treville called Athos and Porthos up to his quarters in a hushed tone that never heralded good things and read from the parchment in little more than a whisper. After the words “none survived,” the world became suddenly quiet, muted and dim against the flare of pain in Porthos’s chest. _None survived_. If the words had not graced his own ears he would never have believed them.

Only after he felt a harsh nudge to his side did the silence finally break and he met Athos’s gaze. His usual stoicism could not mask his too-bright eyes or the way his brows knit as he half- asked for what must have been a second or third time, “Porthos and I, we will ride out tonight for the border.”

He could hardly feel the sharp measure of Captain Treville’s stare through the thorns tugging on his heart. _None survived._

"You cannot carry the bodies of twenty-two musketeers," their superior spoke, though his words seemed hollow and bare of their usual commanding bearing.

"Then send a troupe," Athos answered for both of them before Porthos could wrap his thick tongue around words. "We will secure the area before the carts arrive."

There seemed no persuading Athos from the idea of riding now, riding fast, and Porthos could hardly disagree with the notion.

He knew they should be well on their guard in the chance that any more from Spain, but his mind’s eye remained set on Aramis’s bloody, broken body, his bright smirk forever darkened by blades of Spain. Their mounts must have sensed something wrong, for they kept the frantic pace of their riders as best they could, slowing only when truly necessary for food or drink. The longer they rode, the more certain Porthos became of the letter’s words, no matter how painful they resounded in his heart; the journey should be used preparing his eyes for the sight he knew waited for them.

But there was nothing that could truly prepare him when they finally did happen upon the camp when the final dying embers of the day died in the sky.

The crisp white layer of snow had hidden some of the gore from view and it seemed for a moment like they had stumbled into an elaborate marble garden. His breath caught at the strange beauty of the scene before he remembered that the nearly frozen forms were the corpses of their friends, some with eyes still closed in sleep while others stared wide-eyed out at them and mouths open in silent cries. When no signs of another ambush rang from the trees, when no blades whistled through the air to join him or Athos to their dead comrades, the task of identifying the corpses began. Twenty, they counted, only twenty folded sheets, only twenty lined up like a palisade when all was said and done.

Marsac was not among them and, more importantly, neither was Aramis.

Before he could even consider the potential for an ambush again, Porthos’s voice left him in a cry that could wake the macabre garden, “Aramis!”

Night had fallen properly now and with it a terrible chill that set even him shaking. He could see Athos’s breath rising cold in the air beside him, a long plume of white as his eyes too widened at the prospect of the survival of two of their comrades. His voice joined Porthos’s in a call that they hoped would somehow reach ears that belonged to one still breathing. His mind reminded him that if Aramis had survived the massacre in the first place, there was little hope that he had managed in the winter’s cruel grip of the land, especially if he had been injured.

And then Athos’s voice changed. It hitched high with hope and Porthos dared himself to follow him as they raced away from the camp. He saw the shadow sitting against a tree only a few steps later and though every drop of blood ran still in his veins, he forced his legs to close the distance at a faster pace than he had ever managed before.

He dropped to his knees beside the figure who did not seem to respond to their approach and Porthos immediately recognized him, even though their comrade seemed little more than corpse himself.

"Aramis," he whispered as he reached out for his friend’s shoulders.

Aramis’s chest moved in slow, drowsy breaths even as Athos reached them, kneeling down on the other side of the half-dead musketeer. But he was only half-dead and the part of Porthos that had attempted to accept their friend as gone broke in a sudden rush of relief. Tears began before he could stop them as he tugged his gloves free to investigate the wound on Aramis’s head, clumsily wrapped and clearly done in haste. On the other side, Athos took up the process of attempting to shake Aramis from his silence.

It was successful, even if the only word that rasped from Aramis’s lips was, “They…”

Porthos’s hand traced down the trail of blood from Aramis’s scalp, his skin like ice underneath his calloused fingers. He swept his cloak off in an instant, swaddling him as Athos followed suit. Still, Aramis did not seem to acknowledge their presence, staring off into some distance far, far away from them.

"We need to get him warm," Athos commanded, taking his own turn at gazing at the wound with furrowed eyebrows. "He’ll come around once he’s warmed up. The tents from… the tents are still up, it would be an insult not to use them."

Tents that had belonged to their deceased comrades, Porthos mused silently as he watched Aramis for any sign of recognition or even cognition besides the low murmur of they. He must have been hit harder than it looked, something in his brain had been knocked around and then aggravated by the cold. Perhaps Athos was right and Aramis would rise from his stupor once there was soup in him and a steady fire to ease the chill.

Yes, Porthos told himself as they lifted Aramis gently from the thin blanket of snow that had fallen over him, he would be himself in no time at all, back to the easy smiles and bright laughter. Get him warm and he would be himself. Get him warm and he would be himself. Get him warm and he would be himself. The words became a mantra as Porthos carefully changed Aramis into a fresh pair of breeches and wrapped him in as many blankets as they could find. They became a petition as they settled him near the fire Athos had started in the ring of stones that still remained on the ground and a prayer when Aramis seemed to have no interest in soup or meat.

"Swallow, there we go," Porthos tried to coax him as he finally responded to the spoon being pressed to his lips. There was no guarantee that Aramis had eaten anything in days and Porthos chalked it as another contributing factor to his silence.

“He’s lucky to be alive.” Athos sat down on Aramis’s other side once again, neatly redressing the ghastly wound they both blamed for their friend’s stupor.

What they didn’t expect was the snort of air Aramis blew out of his nostrils. It seemed almost like it was meant to be a laugh if he’d had energy enough to do so.

Porthos set the spoon back down in the bowl as he watched Aramis, who shook his head slowly.

“Lucky,” Aramis breathed out, his expression still distant despite his response. “ _Lucky._ Yes, I’m quite _lucky._ ”

“Aramis.” Porthos reached out again for his friend’s shoulder but Aramis would yet not look at him, so he moved to sit directly in front of him, trying to force their gazes to meet.

When they did, it was like looking into the face of death itself. There was an emptiness there that Porthos had never seen before. Aramis’s eyes were as cold as his skin, dark with pain and guilt, and Porthos would not have recognized him if he did not know their owner better than himself.

“ _Lucky._ ” Aramis breathed again and then looked away to the some place off in the woods. Porthos wondered what it could possibly be that his friend searched for until he remembered that now they only accounted for twenty-one musketeers.

“Where is Marsac?” Athos reached the same conclusion before him, and his voice much more firm than Porthos could have managed at the sight of Aramis like this.

When Aramis did not answer them immediately, he prompted again, this time more gently, “Aramis, where is Marsac?”

Whatever power that kept Aramis sitting upright seemed to leave him in a moment and he crumpled backwards. His back would have met the snow again if Porthos had not seized his shoulders again. However, Aramis was not unconscious, for his harsh breathing that wracked his body, sending shudders through him.

“Gone,” he whispered, barely audible despite the silence that surrounded them in that terrible garden of death. “He’s gone.”

Porthos met Athos’s gaze over Aramis’s bowed head, a reflection of his own worry and fear stewing away. They asked him no more questions that night, instead focusing on getting food into him and warming him by any means they could imagine. By the time the small troupe of carts arrived from Paris, the sun had broken over the horizon again, the snow glimmering in its rays. Porthos stirred at the sound of Athos’s greeting to their comrades, sitting up from where he had laid beside Aramis since the end of his half of the watch. Aramis’s long eyelashes fanned down across his cheeks and Porthos breathed a sigh of relief that his friend had at least gotten some sleep the night before.

After they explained what they had heard from Aramis, Porthos poked his head back into the tent and found him awake this time, but back in the stupor they found him in. No amount of warmth or food seemed to cheer him and not even the promise of _I’ll let you ride in back if you like_ made Aramis so much as blink. Porthos tried to force the reins into Aramis’s hands and fingers that could sew with fine precision could not find their purchase.

It left no choice but to prop Aramis against his chest, Porthos’s arms wrapped around him to hold the black leather and steer them home. The road was long with such dreadful cargo and not a word was spoken between any of the troupe until they arrived back in Paris. When Captain Treville inquired as to why there were but twenty-one recovered from the border, Aramis did finally speak amidst the silence of the company.

“Deserted.” Despite the weakness of his voice, it rang clear like a bell in the courtyard and even louder in Porthos’s ear.

They could get nothing else from him for weeks and even as he was cleared to leave his quarters for exercises again, his silence hung heavy over all of them. All orders were met with a short nod, all offers to join them in the tavern with a simple shake of his head, all smiles and inquiries to his well being with the same stony, empty stare. Porthos could hardly stand to watch as his closest friend who so actively enjoyed life withered and shrunk before their very eyes.

So much so that when another snowstorm brushed Paris with a fresh coat of snow, Porthos was surprised to find him at his door late in the evening. Aramis rarely ventured anywhere beyond what was required with him, much less make house visits of any kind. Still, it was behind closed doors, Aramis staring out at the snow, that the silence finally broke.

“I could do nothing,” Aramis’s voice wavered near the end of his tale and Porthos did not need to see his friend’s face to know that he would find tracks of tears slipping down into his beard.

Porthos had waited until what he perceived to be the right moment to stand and cross the room, to finally offer comfort to one who had refused it thus far, who seemingly preferred the cold, unforgiving snow to the company of his friends. It was as he placed his hand on Aramis’s shoulder that he realized his friend had been punishing himself all these weeks.

“Aramis,” he kept his voice low but not gentle, for Aramis did not need pity, he did not need false platitudes to stem the tide of guilt. “We will get justice.”

In what seemed to be the first time, Aramis turned in a flurry of movement, his hands twisting into the linen of Porthos’s shirt. Porthos could see the guilt transforming into something brighter, something more powerful, something Aramis could act on. Anger. _Anger_ blossomed and breathed life back into the face that had dulled with pain and grief.

And it gave Porthos such hope that it hurt.

“Promise me,” Aramis shook Porthos with a stronger grip than the latter would have ever expected of a man who had all but died those many weeks ago on the border. “ _Promise me._ ”

With a fierce grin at seeing his friend so renewed with purpose, Porthos did not even need to lie, for he would make it his life’s mission to fulfill the words that next left his mouth. “I do promise, Aramis, that we will get justice.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a companion piece that I plan to write shortly that bookends this one, set right after the episode and in Aramis's POV. I am sinistrocular @ tumblr too if you're curious but I don't share much of what I write because I think I write best when I'm particularly inspired (which is every couple months or so). Expect it to be about the same length.


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